Comments about Joan Teale
By hidden river bank sweet cowslips blow
fanfares for elves; pale golden primrose, palled
in pleated green, vaults the shy violet.
My phantom foot falls upon trodden earth
and guides me to a rustling wooded dell
where trembling shade flutters each tall bluebell.
These ghostly feet of mine conduct my eye
to limpid light filled pools, braided with fern,
where rainbows kiss the gently sculptured stones,
until I find the swaying bridge that led
once, from great foot smooth rocks, beside worn steps
and linked the village street to church and grave.